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Dugouts and Dreams 



Dugouts and Dreams 



By 

LT. FRANK C. TILLSON 

I3i8t INFANTRY, A. E. F. 



PHELPS AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 

14 W. Chestnut St., Chicago, 111. 



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Copyright 1920 

Phelps and Company 

Chicago 



MAR 24 1920 



Bebication 



TO RUDYARD KIPLING 

To the Singer of the Real Songs, the Magician of 

the Pen, 
Who sings the Joys and Sorrozvs, the Loves and 

Lives of Men, 
I dedicate this little hook, with gratitude, today, 
For the hours I've spent a-dreaming ''on the road 

to Mandalay." 
"Oh, East is East and West is West, and never the 

twain shall meet," 
But here's a token from the West. I lay it at your 

feet, 
Just a little hook of verses, hut 'tis all I have to 

bring ; 
It is all that I can offer, the songs I've tried to sing. 



CONTENTS 

FACE 

Dedication — To Rudyard Kipling 7 

The End of the Trail I3 

Wreckage 1 5 

Playmates i6 

The Stretcher Bearers I7 

The Mourning Women 19 

Lights 20 

Veterans 21 

On Guard 23 

Peggy 25 

The Rainbow 27 

Dud 29 

A Message to You 31 

Horrors of War 32 

The Sleeping Village 35 

Mina 37 

The "Dandy First" 39 

The Worlds 41 

Sweet Peas 45 

To a Cavalry Horse 47 

Going Over 49 

Suzanne 5^ 

Good for Something 53 

9 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Rubaiyat of an Ambulance Man 55 

Patsey 58 

The Song of the Bayonet 59 

The Song of the Sergeant 61 

To Dorothy 63 

When Omar Was a "Candidate" 65 

The Stanley Man 67 

The Last Assignment 68 

Reveille 69 

Sketches 72 

Amelia 74 

Discharged . . 75 

Retreat yy 

Homesick 78 

Pioneers 80 

On Clark Street 82 

The Misfits 84 

The "Holy" War 86 

Mumps 88 

Dreams 90 

Weather and Work 92 

The Welcome 94 

Ambition 96 

Pal o'Mine 98 

The Cowboy's Lament 100 

The Parting of the Ways loi 

Grace 102 

Goin' Away 103 

10 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

An Awful Poem 105 

Coming Home 107 

The God of Conventionality 108 

Politics 1 10 

My Pipe and I iii 

The Whisperin' Lady 112 

Economy 113 

To the Goddess Nicotine 114 

The Song of the "Bo" 116 

North Dakota 119 

The Slaves of the Commonplace 121 

The Jesters 123 

Afterword 125 



II 



THE END OF THE TRAIL 

I am dreaming alone by the campfire, 
While the glowing embers pale, 

Of a little white cross in the Argonne 
At the end of a long, long trail. 
*♦♦=♦■*♦ 

We knew the trail was long and rough ; 

We knew where it might lead ; 
Yet, when they called for fighting men 

In that grim hour of need, 
Jim sort o' grinned and looked at me, 

And I grinned back — and so 
We just shook hands and hit the trail 

That beckoned us to go. 

We'd followed lots of trails before, 

From Argentine to Nome ; 
For we were born with nervous feet ; 

The wide world was our home. 
And we were pals — for we had shared 

The hunger, want, and woe 
Of all the trails, in all the lands, 

That lured us to and fro. 



13 



THE END OF THE TRAIL 

We used to sit beside the fire, 

When daily drills were through ; 
Then Jim, he'd light a cigarette 

And plan on what we'd do, 
And where we'd go, and what we'd see, 

When this big scrap is done — 
That little cross in the Argonne 

Shows where old Jim has gone. 

Somehow, it's awful lonesome here. 

And no one seems to care, 
And nothing seems to count for much, 

Since Jim went over there. 
There's just one thing I'm living for, 

To make those Boches pay ; 
And the trail looks long and dreary, 

For Jim, he's gone away. 
*♦♦*** 

There's a little white cross in the Argonne, 
At the end of a long, long trail ; 

And there's me, alone by the campfire. 
While the glowing embers pale. 



14 



WRECKAGE 

Out from the ocean of War, 
Cast up to rot on the shore : 

No more to follow the star, 
Luring us on as before. 

Desolate wreckage of War, 
Bodies all shattered with pain, 

Hulks, that shall nevermore sail 
Long for the ocean again. 

Only in dreams shall we know 
Red, flaming joy of the strife. 

Wrecked — in the midst of it all. 
Nothing is left us — but Life. 



15 



PLAYMATES 

Sort o' miss my playmate, 
Honest, child, I do. 

Sort o' longing for the day 
rU come back to you. 

Heard the bugles calling, 
Gaily marched away. 

Wonder do you miss me 
When you want to play ? 

Sitting here and smoking. 
Lonely like and blue 

Wishing, little playmate, 
I were back with you. 



i6 



THE STRETCHER BEARERS 

While they're passin' round these Croix de Guerres 

an' D. S. C.'s an' such, 
There's a guy I'd like to recommend — he isn't men- 
tioned much. 
His job is nothin' fancy, an' he doesn't get much 

fame. 
He is just a stretcher bearer, but, believe me, Bo, 

he's game, 
(Who am I? Why, just a doughboy. Perhaps you 

know my rep. 
An' I used to kid the Pill Brigade fer gittin' out of 

step, 
But since we've had this war of ours, I've seen what 

they can do, 
And perhaps this little story may explain my change 

of view.) 

♦ ♦♦♦*♦ 

I was lyin' there one mornin' with my nose jammed 

in the dirt. 
While the bullets all around me, made the tiny dust 

clouds spurt; 
Just a-wishin' I was thinner, an' longin' to be home. 
Or any place away from there, from Mexico to 

Nome. 

17 



THE STRETCHER BEARERS 

My pal was lyin' wounded, up a hundred yards 

ahead, 
An' I knew we couldn't reach him, so I gave him up 

for dead. 
Then two stretcher hearers started, an' I figgered 

they was gone. 
But they never hesitated — just went on, and on, 

and on. 
They just sort o' hunched their shoulders, like it 

was a shower of rain, 

An' they went out to my buddy — an' they brought 

him back again. 

****** 

It's not so hard to face the Boche, an' let him shoot 

at you, 
When you've got an automatic, an' can do some 

shootin' too. 
But those two boys went marchin' out, without a 

single chance, 
Except to push up daisies in some sunny field in 

France. 
They saw their job an' did it, without any fuss or 

talk, 
Just as calmly and serenely as you'd start out for 

a walk. 
Believe me, that takes courage, an' I'll hand it to 

them, then, 
You may call them non-combatants, but they are 

soldiers and they're Men. 

18 



THE MOURNING WOMEN 

Fields of poppies blazing — scarlet in the wheat, 
Winding roadways made for wandering lovers' feet, 
Close cropped hedges in between — poplars, prim and 

straight, 
And all the mourning women gazing through the 

gate. 

Mild eyed cattle grazing, knee deep in the grass, 
Crowds of children watching as the soldiers pass — 
France has given gladly of the best she yields. 
See the mourning women, working in the fields. 

Half a nation clad in black, that a world be free. 
Did their share, and now the task falls to you and 

me; 
Soldiers of a younger land, proud, we are, and glad, 
To fight for mourning women who gave the best 

they had. 

Once our fathers called them — quick they came to 

aid. 
Now we come in millions, that the debt be paid. 
Facing ever forward, our far flung lines advance. 
For the mourning women, emblems now, of France. 

19 



LIGHTS 

The lights ashore are growing plain, 
The tiny lights that led us home, 

Those lonely, loving, little lights, 
Along the roads we used to roam. 

Yet we will miss those other lights. 

Which we have learned to love and know, 

The ruddy glow of Sibley stoves. 

And the open fires in the gleaming snow. 

The star shells lighting No Man's Land, 
The searchlight's beam across the sky. 

The many colored rockets' flare, 

Where men creep out to kill and die. 

The candle in the dugout's gloom, 

Your cigarette, a tiny spark. 
That fades and glows so friendly Hke, 

Across the trench in the sullen dark. 

The lights of home gleam tenderly — 
Those other lights, in vain, must call : 

Yet, here in our peaceful, ordered lives, 
God knows, we will miss them all. 



20 



VETERANS 

Gosh! 

Can you imagine 

ME 

A veteran? 

I ain't got 

No wooden legs, 

Nor white whiskers, 

Nor nothin'. 

Ever since 

I was big enough 

So Maw could take me 

To see the parade 

On Decoration Day, 

I've heard 'em talk 

Of veterans, 

An' now 

I'm one. 

Somehow — 

I always sort o' thought 

They was born 

Thataway, 

21 



VETERANS 

But now, 

I realize 

That other war 

Was fought by boys, 

Same as this one — 

An' they prob'ly was 

Just as blue, 

An' homesick. 

An' scared 

As I was. 

But, say! 

Can you imagine 

ME 

Being a veteran 

Of anything? 



22 



ON GUARD 

As I walk my post in the stillness, 

And the stars are gleaming through, 
Then the whispering boughs of the pine trees. 

They are singing, dear heart, of you. 
'Tis the wind that blows from the Northland, 

From the snowclad peak and plain. 
That is telling the pines the story, 

And they tell it to me again. 

It may be that I am but dreaming, 

But I would that dreams came true ; 
For the pines sing of lovelight gleaming, 

Deep down in the eyes of you ; 
And they whisper that you are longing 

For the man who marched away, 
And who watches now in the darkness 

For the dawn of another day. 

Then they murmur soft, you are waiting 
For a day which is sure to come, 

When a world that is purged of evil 
Shall no longer hear the drum 

23 



ON GUARD 

Or the tramp of the warring nations, 
As their sons march forth to fight, 

For the things their fathers taught them, 
And their dreams of wrong made right. 

Now the eastern sky grows brighter, 

With the flush of dawning day. 
And the bugles wake the sleeping camp, 

But they drive my dreams away. 
Then I whisper low to the pine trees 

Of all that I long to do ; 
And I wonder if pines in the homeland 

Will be telling my dreams to you. 



24 



PEGGY 

She's a tantalizin' divil, wid a sparkle in her eye, 
An' a smile that sets me heart a-thumpin' fast ; 
An' I tell you on the livil, that no matter how I try, 

Shure, I can't forget the time I saw her last. 
For I tried wan day to make mesilf believe I didn't 
care, 
But I knew that I was lyin', an' mesilf, he knew 
it, too, 
Though I know she has no heart at all, 'tis bitter 
hard to bear, 
An' I wish I didn't love her — ^but I do. 

She's a dainty little fairy, wid a foot so light an' 
small. 
Ye would niver think it big enough to crush the 
heart av me. 
But she wint her way a-smilin' an' she niver cared 
at all 
That she left an aching hollow, where me heart it 
used to be. 

****** 

Shure, there's no more joy in workin', an' there's 
no more fun in play, 

25 



PEGGY 

An' the world is dark an' dreary, though the skies 

are bright an' blue, 
But I've got me dreams and memories — she can't 

take those away, 
An' I wish I didn't love her — but I do. 



26 



THE RAINBOW 

A dismal, drizzling rain, 
Spread like a mantle of woe, 
Over the hill and the plain. 
Over the river below. 
Dimly we see through the mist, 
Walls we have failed to destroy, 
Desolate, deadly, and dark. 
The village of Consenvoye. 

Sudden, the sun, breaking through. 

Paints a great, glimmering arch. 

Orange, and crimson, and blue. 

Over the path where we march. 

White clouds of shrapnel above, 

The order comes up to deploy, 

And the grim line goes to the rainbow's end 

In the village of Consenvoye. 

Swift, on its mission of death, 
Down through the rainbow's sheen. 
Comes a shell which was meant for me, 



^/ 



THE RAINBOW 

But my buddy steps between — 
Faithful, and tender, and true, 
Giving his Hfe for a friend — 
And so he waits for the final call, 
There at the rainbow's end. 



The emblem of eternal hope, 

Prophet of peace and joy — 

But my buddy died at the rainbow's end, 

In the village of Consenvoye. 



28 



DUD 

I have heard men tell of the sweetest words that 

human voice can speak, 
Of the tender words of the mother tongue, be it 

Choctaw, French, or Greek, 
Oh, it must be great, in the pale moonlight, to hear 

her murmur, "Yes." 
And the words like "mother, home, and friend" 

mean more than we confess. 
All these words are sweet, but away out here, where 

the cannon crash and roar, 
I have learned a word that is sweeter, far, than any 

I've heard before. 

Were you ever out on a lonely plain, when the moon 

was awful clear. 
And you looked around for a hole to duck, but never 

a hole was near, 
While the German shells went whizzing by, and 

closer, and closer, drew, 
As you wondered which of them was stamped with 

the number meant for you. 
Till at last one hit at your very feet, and plastered 

you with mud ; 
Then you know the relief that a word can bring, 

when someone whispers "Dud." 

29 



DUD 

Did you ever sit in a tiny trench, where you knew 
you had to stick, 

In a Christian Science dugout, with a roof six inches 
thick. 

Not a thing to do, but just sit, and cuss, and hght a 
cigarette, 

While the "Whiz-Bangs" banged, and the big "Five- 
Nines" tore up the parapet? 

Then you surely know how sweet it sounds, when 
you've heard a big one thud, 

And you've held your breath for a million years, 
just to hear that whisper "Dud." 

I suppose when the war is finished, when the victory 

is won. 
When the hard tack all is eaten, and the bully beef is 

gone. 
When my last true friend has been bored to death 

by the tales that I unload. 
Of the wondrous way that my life was saved, when 

that shell did not explode, 
And I tell the world for the umpteenth time, how I 

waded through seas of blood, 
Then, some guy will murmur in accents mild, "Too 

bad it was a Dud." 



30 



A MESSAGE TO YOU 

There's a purple haze a-drifting where the sky and 

and grey hills meet, 

Somewhere in France. 
There are crimson poppies blazing in the cool green 

of the wheat, 
Where the speckled trout are leaping in the tiny 

crystal streams, 
And the long, white road is winding — where the 

golden sunlight gleams ; 
It is there that I'll be meeting you, along the Road 

of Dreams, 

Somewhere in France. 

There's a lonely land that's lying, out there beyond 
the wire. 

Somewhere in France. 
And there's little time for dreaming, when the order 
comes to fire, 

Somewhere in France. 
Where the star shells' glare lights the waiting line, 
And the lone patrol hears the bullets whine — 
There's a heart that is loving you, sweetheart of 
mine. 

Somewhere in France. 

31 



HORRORS OF WAR 

I used to think 

That, if I finished this war 

With a full assortment 

Of arms and legs, 

There wouldn't be a thing 

To worry me, 

But now 

I know 

Better. 

This is the awful thought 
That sends the cold chills 
Chasing up and down 
My spine, 
Like a cootie 
Taking his morning 
Promenade. 

Some day — 

Long after this little scrap 

Has been forgotten, 

32 



HORRORS OF WAR 

Say, 

Six months 

From now, 

I'm apt to go 

To some Swell Joint 

For a Regular 

Feed — 

You know the kind 

I mean, 

Where all the men 

Wear open face 

Blouses, 

And white shirts. 

And no leggings — 

And the women, 

Oh, Boy ! ! 

About the time 

The highbrow 

K. P. 

Is bringing in 

Seconds 

On the Slum, 

I'm gonna 

Forget 

And cuss 

Out loud, 

Or mention 

Cooties, 

Or something. 

33 



HORRORS OF WAR 

And then — 

There will be 

An awful 

Silence, 

While I 

Just ooze away 

To look for a shell hole 

Or a drink — 

And, pretty soon, 

Some dignified 

Old Dowager 

Will lift up her 

Double-barreled 

Monocle 

And whisper, 

"Undoubtedly 

He has a good heart, 

A most worthy man, 

And a stout fighter. 

But, 

My Dear, 

He is Socially 

Impossible." 



34 



THE SLEEPING VILLAGE 

The tiny village of Pierregot 
Dreams of the days of long ago, 
Of the gallant knight and his winsome bride 
Who drank the wine of the countryside 
At the open door of the estaminet, 
Mounted their horses and rode away 
Down the shady road. Then armored men 
Went to the wars and returned again. 
Prince and pauper passed to and fro, 
Through the pleasant village of Pierregot. 

The winding streets resound again 

To the cadenced tread of marching men. 

And at the pool where the cross roads meet, 

The women tell of the great defeat. 

Now, strange men talk in a language new, 

As they pause to rest while passing through. 

No pennons flutter their colors gay. 

As the brown clad ranks swing on their way 

With singing hearts, to meet the foe, 

Across the hills from Pierregot. 

35 



THE SLEEPING VILLAGE 

Seven kilos from Pierregot, 
Is wrath and ruin, want and woe, 
Where other towns of ancient France 
Woke from their dreams of dead romance 
To hear the screams of wounded men. 
Woke — to be crushed to earth again. 
While, over fields of ripening grain, 
Slowly there spreads a crimson stain. 



The pleasant village of Pierregot 

Smiles in its dreams — and does not know. 



36 



MINA 

Whin the Lord looked down from Hivin, at our 

toiHn', grievin' earth, 
Thin his heart was filled wid pity for our lack av 

joy an' mirth ; 
So He called His angels to Him, an' He sez to thim, 

sez He, 
"We will sind thim down a sample av the joys that 

are to be." 

Thin He sint his angels far an' wide, an' told thim 
where to meet, 

Wid the various ingredients to make his task com- 
plete. 

So they brought a dancing sunbeam, an' a fleecy 
summer cloud. 

An' a bit av bottled echo, where a fairy laughed 
aloud. 

Wan brought a ray av moonlight, an' wan an artist's 

dream. 
An' wan the lilting lyric av a sparkling mountain 

stream. 
Another found a frosty morn, an' stole the sparkle 

from the air ; 
The Lord, He smiled, an' wid these things. He made 

a maiden fair. 

37 



MINA 

Two little, shining, baby stars, they begged to be 

her eyes ; 
The color for her cheeks an' lips. He took from 

sunset skies. 
The angels thought the work was done, but sud- 

dinly he sint 
A messenger to Satan for a spice av divilmint. 

He looked an' saw His work was good, an' sez wid 

accents glib, 
" 'Tis a great improvement on the job I did wid 

Adam's rib." 
So He placed her in this sad old world to bring us 

joy an' bliss ; 
(An' I'm tellin' you, she did that same. That's why 

I'm writin' this.) 

L'Envoi 

Whin the Lord looked down from Hivin at our 

toilin', grievin' earth. 
And His heart was filled wid pity for our lack av 

joy an' mirth ; 
And He sint this joyous maiden, ah. He lost wan 

man, I fear, 
I'm not carin' much for Hivin, the whiles that 

Mina's here. 



38 



THE DANDY FIRST 

It seems at least a million years, since last the bugles 

blew, 
And the "Dandy First" in dress parade, marched 

down the Avenue, 
With Colonel Joe in front of us, as proud as any 

king, 
While the cheering from the sidewalks made the 

joyous echoes ring. 
The band was playing "Illinois" and led the gay ad- 
vance — 
Today we do our marching over half the roads of 

France. 
It's a long way to the homeland, and a long time, too, 

before 
The "Dandy First" comes swinging down the 

Avenue once more. 

There is no music playing as we plod on through 

the rain, 
For the band, as stretcher bearers, help to carry in 

the slain. 
We've been tried with bombs and bullets — we've 

been tried with gas and shell, 

39 



THE DANDY FIRST 

But the Little Colonel's still in front — we'd follow 

him through Hell. 
We're not so pretty as we were — a bath would be a 

treat, 
But we are still the "Dandy First," who never knew 

defeat. 
The boys you knew are soldiers now — all honor to 

them, then. 
When the "Dandy First" comes marching down the 

Avenue again. 

There will be some faces missing, when along our 

ranks you glance. 
Oh, the little wooden crosses in the shell-scarred 

fields of France — 
Where our boys have paid the blood price — paid it 

gladly, full and fair, 
And, in paying, taught the German that the "Dandy 

First" was there. 
When you cheer us on returning — don't forget the 

men who paid. 
For they knew the cost and faced the end, as 

soldiers, unafraid. 
Oh, the cheering and the weeping — Oh, the mingled 

joy and pain. 
When the "Dandy First" comes marching down the 

Avpiiue again. 



40 



THE WORLDS 

This is but one 
Of many worlds, 
And this I know 
In three short years, 
That I have lived 
In several. 

First — 

There was a world 

Of mountain heights 

And plains, of valleys fair, 

All green and gold ; 

Of work and play 

And trout that leaped 

From crystal streams. 

It was a pleasant world, 

But small. 

Next- 
There came a world 
Of college life. 
Fraternities, 
Of books and girls, 

41 



THE WORLDS 

And fellowship 

With careless Youth; 

A world where petty things 

Loomed large — and yet 

It also was 

A pleasant world. 

Then — 

There was a third, 
A sterner world, 
A world of men, 
And drills, and work 
That tried their souls; 
Of weary days, 
And lonely nights ; 
Of dumb obedience — 
We knew not why — 
And still there were 
Great moments 
Which repaid our toil 
In full. 

And, all the while, 
We knew that soon 
We must pass on. 

And then — 

We crossed the sea, 

Unto another world, 

42 



THE WORLDS 

A place of ruined homes, 

And shattered men 

Who smiled 

At Life and Death; 

A world of pain, 

And dirt, 

And crawling things ; 

Of gas that choked, 

And shells that tore 

The tender flesh ; 

When no man dared 

To dream 

Of what was past, 

Or plan 

One day ahead ; 

And yet, this was 

A joyous world, 

Not only with 

The flaming joy 

Of Battle— but 

The pleasure found 

In fellowship with men 

From every land. 

We met and passed 

And each one knew. 

That come what might, 

His Hfe, at least. 

Was justified. 

43 



THE ^^ ORLDS 

Now — 

We dwell in still 

Another world, 

Of villages that sleep 

In quiet woods ; 

Of looking back 

To worlds where once 

We lived. 

While all beyond 

Is veiled in mist. 

This is but one 
Of many worlds, 
And always, we 
Must gaze ahead. 
And wonder what 
The next may be. 



44 



SWEET PEAS 

There's a sort o' fairy fragrance comes a-floating 

on the breeze, 
And I seem to hear a whisper, like the murmur of 

the trees, 
When the zephyrs from the mountains set them 

sighing soft and low, 
In that valley 'neath the Rockies, in the land where 
sweet-peas grow. 

Sweet-pea blooms — and Memor}' 
Of the dreams I dreamed in vain, 
But the scent of sweet-pea blossoms. 
Oh, it brings my dreams again. 

I can see it there, all green and gold, with peaks of 

amethyst. 
And the silver ribbons here and there, where rivers 

turn and twist 
Through that valley, where the sunshine drives away 

all care and gloom, 
In the golden light, all pink and white, I see the 

sweet-peas bloom. 

45 



SWEET PEAS 

When that perfume fills the air, 
Then my dream, so real it seems, 
That I see once more the valley 
That I call my Land o' Dreams. 

In this Land o' Dreams, a maiden fair is waiting 

now for me. 
And I long to go where sweet-peas grow. 'Tis there 

that I would be, 
In the Land o' Dreams, in Sweet-Pea Land, the 

Land of Days That Were, 
For the scent of sweet-pea blossoms, it is calling me 
to her. 

Sweet-Pea Girl, Pm coming back, 
For I dreamed that you might care, 
And the scent of sweet-pea blossoms 
Seemed the fragrance of your hair. 

46 



TO A CAVALRY HORSE 

Old friend of the ranges, they've caught you at last, 

And forced you to drill in a line ; 
"Fours right. Column left," till the long day has 
passed, 

And I know how you feel, pal o' mine. 
How you long for the wide, empty spaces. 

They are calling to you as to me. 
And the wind from the homeland breathes soft in 
our faces, 

As it whispers, "Come back and be free." 

Yet we can't go back — we must go on, 

To the range across the sea ; 
For the Big Boss says there's a job for us 

In the cause of Liberty. 
They are needing us, old Pinto Horse, 

There is work for us over there, 
And we may come back, but if we don't. 

There's no one much to care. 

There must be some place up in Heaven, 

Where the angels don't go very much, 

47 



TO A CAVALRY HORSE 

Where there's room for a couple of rivers, 

And some mountains, and pine trees, and 
such. 

By the brand on your hip, they will know you. 
The brand on my heart is as plain. 

Then, together, we'll go to the homeland. 

And the smell of the sagebrush again. 



48 



GOING OVER 

Three days ago 

We strolled down Broadway, 

And all the maidens smiled, for we 

Were all dolled up in leather putts 

And everything; 

And when we left 

The waiters and the taxi men 

Shed bitter tears. 

But now — 

We are afloat aboard a censored ship 

Upon a censored sea, 

And all this junk I'm writing here 

Will likely meet the same sad fate 

And die of seasickness. 

As Goldstein says, 

"Full many a gem of purest ray, serene, 

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear, 

Which, dodging shark and submarine. 

Is laid to rest in the Censor's lair." 

But, just the same, 

I feel that it will be 

A great relief 

To write it down. 



49 



GOING OVER 

Speaking of "dark, unfathomed caves" 

My home address, at present, 

Is Number Three upon the sixty-seventh floor 

Beginning from the top. 

In fact I am so far below 

The surface, that I have to stand 

Upon my toes 

To reach 

The bottom. 

My bunk is in the second layer, and 

To use a poker term, 

"The ceiling is the limit." 

Thank Gazvd, I'm thin! 

Old Pullman would take off his hat. 

And Mr. What's His Name, who cans sardines, 

Would gaze in silent awe, 

Could they but see 

My home, sweet home. 

Thank Gawd, again, 
I didn't join the navy. 



50 



SUZANNE 

In the Land of Luxembourgers, 
Dwells a maiden, fair to look on ; 
Answers to a name most wondrous, 
Name that sets my heart a-flutter, 

Suzanne, 
Suzanne of the Cows. 
Eyes with tender light, soft gleaming, 
Even as the cows she tendeth, 
Manicures, and leads to water. 
Figure like a German Venus, 
As she leans upon her pitchfork, 
So in all my dreams she cometh, 
Stealing softly, like a vision, 
Smiles upon me in the darkness, 
Showing teeth that would make joyous 
Kolynos, the God of Dentists, 
Smiles once more and straightway goeth 
Forth into the Ewigkeit. 

Du, geliebte, schonste, Madchen, 
Tell me, must you immer arbeit ? 
Can you never stop to listen 
To my songs, oh, Bocheland fairy, 

SI 



SUZANNE 

Songs of love, of love and longing 

For your smiles, mein lieber Fraulein ? 

Long have I been searching for you 

In the land across the water. 

Now the Gods have led me to you, 

Nevermore can I forget you. 

Ever must I stop and listen. 

As the East Wind whispers softly 

In my ear, that name entrancing, 

Suzanne, 
Suzanne of the Cows. 



52 



GOOD FOR SOMETHING 

I was always a shiftless sort of cuss, 
I was good for nothing and didn't care ; 
Just a rolling stone and shy on moss, 
But I'm good for something "over there." 

If you could have seen me a week ago. 

You would never have dreamed that, back at home. 

There's a white haired mother thinks little Joe 

Is headed sure for the White house dome. 

She's just as sure I'll be president. 

Or a judge, or some such shining light 

As she used to be, before I went 

And beat it from home that summer night. 

I beat it away 'cause the town was slow 
And I wanted to see what life could give. 
Well, I've seen enough and I'd like to go 
Back to her side, where I used to live. 
But I got in wrong and I wrote her lies — 
Sure, it can't be a sin to bring her joy, 
But, at last, I can look in her dear eyes, 
And she'll still be proud of me, her boy. 

53 



GOOD FOR SOMETHING 

I hadn't shaved for a week or two, 
And I hadn't bathed since God knows when ; 
Just a-rambling by when the bugles blew 
And I heard them asking for fighting men. 
"Fight" was always my middle name, 
So I talked to the Sergeant and here I am. 
And for once in my life, I can play the game. 
"You're good for something," says Uncle Sam. 

I'm a poet punk and the meter's wrong, 

As you surely know, if you've heard me through. 

But I had to sing you this little song, 

And please don't ask why I picked on you. 

For I'll tell the world that it's great to hear 

That I'm good for something now, somewhere. 

Though I never could live for it over here, 

I can die for my country "over there." 



54 



THE RUBAIYAT OF AN AMBULANCE 

MAN 

The City Lights, they beckon, shining clear, 
And whisper, "Love and Laughter wait you Here, 
When all the Jass Bands play upon the Shore, 
Why dwells my former Slave upon the Pier?" 

I answer then, "Oh. Mistress of my Heart, 
My Love shall last till Death doth part, 
And I am true, but Uncle Sam hath said 
That all his boys need sleep — so have a Heart." 

I would not Fate, nor Sergeants, wise, condemn, 
Nor e'en complain of Rules proclaimed by them. 
But, Shade of Caesar, tell me why I should 
Be forced to hit the Hay at Ten P. M. 

Behold, I have a Maiden, passing fair, 
My Love for Her, by All the Gods, I swear. 
Then grab my Lid at Nine o'clock. 
Ah, Cruel Fate, and leave Her lonely there. 

55 



RUBAIYAT OF AN AMBULANCE MAN 

Torn from her side, Fm hurried Where? 
And from that spot, perchance, to Over There. 
Ah, many a drop of Blood from Kaiser Bill 
Shall drown the Memory of my Despair. 



Of Right and Left Oblique and Right Front Into 

Line, 
! know no word, but why should I repine. 
When one Command of "As you Were" 
Will cover all — and that I have down fine? 



Thou should'st prepare for Future Life, some say 
And look for thy Reward on that far better Day, 
But, ah, methinks that Two-Bits, cash in hand. 
Is greater far, than all my Next Month's Pay. 



Ah, my Beloved, fill the cup that clears 
Today of Past Regrets and Future Fears, 
And pass it on to some more lucky man, 
Because, these days, I'm drinking Tea. my dears. 



Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before, I swore, 
But was I sober when I swore ? 
But now, I'm off the Stuff for Life, 
If I should die before this war is o'er. 



56 



RUBAIYAT OF AN AMBULANCE MAN 

Yon silver Moon that shines on Street and Plain, 
How oft hereafter shall She wax and wane, 
And see my Love with Someone Else, 
But look, amid the Throng, for me, in vain. 



And when like her, Oh, Saki, with thy joys, 
Thou shalt pass round mid Mirth and Noise, 
Just turn an Empty Glass where once I sat 
And say, "He's in the Army, boys." 



57 



PATSEY 

There's a sweet colleen, I long to see, 

'Tis Patsey. 
And in all me dreams, she smiles at me, 

Does Patsey. 
Ah, whin I was young and free from care. 
Me heart on me sleeve, I used to wear, 
But she stole it away, the maiden fair, 

Called "Patsey." 

Yis, she stole it away in broad daylight, 

Did Patsey. 
But she only took what belonged by right 

To Patsey. 
Shure she's welcome to it, if it \\\\\ bring 
A smile to her face. 'Tis a w'orthless thing, 
But 'twas all I had, so today I sing 

Of Patsey. 

This world was all sunshine whin she was near. 

Fair Patsey, 
But now 'tis all cloudy and dark, and drear. 

My Patsey. 
For whin she smiles all the world is glad, 
And whin she frowns, then me heart is sad, 
But smiles or frowns, still wid love I'm mad. 

For Patsey. 

S8 



THE SONG OF THE BAYONET 

This is the song of the bayonet, 
That he sings to his chosen ones, 
Who know not fear — it soundeth clear, 
Mid clamour of the guns. 

"The father of my father was a spear. 

Wherewith the knights, in days of long ago, 

Were wont to sally forth without a fear, 

1 o wrest a captive maiden from the foe. 

For me, no tasks romantic, I wear no ribbands 

bright. 
My ancestors would scarce acknowledge me. 
Tis mine to fight through the long, long night. 
For the dawn of Liberty." 

Over the top, with hearts aflame. 
And eyes with hate aglow, 
Singing the song of the bayonet, 
Which he, who lives, must know. 

"Oh, I am keen, and strong, and bright, 
And I know no thought of fear. 
When you creep in No Man's Land at night. 
And you feel the foe is near ; 

59 



THE SONG OF THE BAYONET 

When you struggle there in the silent dark, 
With never an eye to see, 
And the noiseless steel has reached its mark, 
Then, mine let the triumph be." 

It is kill or die, when you rush the foe, 
And life is very sweet, 
Then this is the song of the bayonet, 
To the tune of the pounding feet. 

"I was not made for the weary wait. 

Where the searching bullets hum, 

But mine is the moment, wondrous, great, 

When the word to charge has come. 

Oh, the butt is good, and the bullet's good, 

Yet I lead all the rest. 

When the day of Great Adventure dawns, 

And death seems but a jest." 

The Hun, he hates the cold, cold steel. 
The cold steel hates the Huns. 
So, hark to the song of the bayonet, 
That he sings to his chosen ones. 

60 



THE SONG OF THE SERGEANT 

I'm not a gorgeous General, 
Nor yet a gold cord Loot, 
For all I get is stripes to wear, 
To decorate my suit. 

You will never read about me in the papers ; 

And they'll never pin a medal onto me, 
But I'll do my damndest just the same, 

For the "land of the brave and the free." 
Though the non-com is the backbone of the Army, 

Someone else will grab the glory and the fame. 
For the worry and fret is all that we get. 

Our reward is the joy of the Game. 

Did I hear you say this life is "so romantic" ? 

I thought it was myself, before the day. 
When I slung a blanket roll upon my shoulder, 

And to be a "hero, bold," I marched away. 
So I'll do my bit in Uncle Samuel's army. 

As a soldier, I must never, never shirk. 
But forget about the romance and the courage. 

For this army life is simply, damn hard work. 

6i 



THE SONG OF THE SERGEANT 

1 know that I will never be a hero, 

And lead my dashing soldiers to the fray, 
But. somehow, I don't care, for I know that over 
there, 

There will be some little part for me to play. 
No. you'll never see my picture in the papers. 

And I'll never hear the cheering of the mob, 
For I'm just the guy who does the work that's 
needed. 

Give me credit — it's a man-sized job. 



62 



TO DOROTHY 

Ye may sing of the light of the cold, pale moon, 
Or the light of the sunset skies, 

But I'm happy, quite. 

When I see the light 
That shines in Milady's eyes. 

Ye may sing of the brown of the Autum leaves. 
But I sing of Milady's hair, 

For 'tis gold and brown, 

And a fitting crown, 
For the head of Milady fair. 

Ye may sing of the pink of rosebuds fair. 
Or the white of the snow-capped peaks, 

But the rosebud's glow. 

Nor the soft, white snow 
Can compare with Milady's cheeks. 

Ye may sing of the red of the ruby, bright, 
Or the rose where the wild bee sips ; 

They are fair. Ah, yes. 

But what happiness 
Might be found on Milady's lips. 

63 



TO DOROTHY 



L'Envoi 



Ye may sing of the joys of our younger days, 
Of the days when our hearts were free, 

But I'll still forsake 

All these joys and take. 
Just my dreams — of Dorothy, 



64 



\yHEN OMAR WAS A "CANDIDATE" 

Men strive and toil to reach some high Domain, 
And, when arrived, wish they were once again 

Where they have been. Tonight, I know 

That I have done my Damndest — but in Vain. 

My Songs of Wine and Women, long ago 

Were sung, before this time of Woe, 
When all the Day, from Reveille to Taps, 

I cannot sing — for Toil is all I know. 

When Taps is blown — why Waking stay, 
And in your mind revive the Trials of Day. 

Sleep while you may — and sleeping dream 

Of Pleasant Things — for Dawn brings Reveille. 

Then should the Gods inquire what Boon 

Would cause my Muse to sing its sweetest Tune, 

I'd answer them, "Ah, let me slay 

That Bugler Guy — and sleep till Noon. 

That Golden Hat Cord, gleaming bright. 
Was, but a foolish Vision in the Night, 

65 



WHEN OMAR WAS A "CANDIDATE" 

And I shall wake to find a week's K. P. 

Awaiting me, when Morning brings the Light. 

What matters it that I shall never be a "Loot," 
Whom Privates, yea, and Sergeants too. salute ; 

When humble Toil brings Happiness, 

And Board, and Clothes, and Thirty Per. to boot ? 



66 



THE STANLEY MAN 

He is dressed in a suit of khaki, 

And he packs a gun with the rest, 
For that bit of white is the only sign 

That he's one of the Army's best. 

He is one of those who stuck it out, 

He has done what few men can ; 
He has gone on his nerve when his strength gave out, 

He's a soldier — and a Man. 

He will cross the top with the same old dash, 
Face the foe with the same old smile ; 

And he'll fight like Hell to the bitter end, 
For that is the Stanley style. 

No, you don't salute when you meet him — yet, 

For he's only a private still ; 
But that bit of white he worked to win. 

Is to show you that soon — you will. 



67 



THE LAST ASSIGNMENT 

If I should "go West" tomorrow, 

Till I came to the golden gate, 
Where soldier and slacker, Buck and Loot, 

Alike must stand and wait 
To report to the Great Commander, 

Of all they have done below, 
And wait for the last assignment, 

Till Gabriel's bugles blow. 

Then I'll stand up straight at attention, 
And salute in the Stanley style — 

"Sir, I report for duty." 

Then He'll say with a weary smile, 

"You have spent three months at Stanley, 
I know that bunch too well, 

You would not feel at home in Heaven." 

"Hey, Pete ! Pass one to Hell." 



68 



REVEILLE 

"I can't get 'em up — I can't get 'em up, 
I can't get 'em up in the morning." 

That's the sound we hear, when dayHght is near, 
And we have to roll out in the dawning. 

Then we curse a soldiers life as we grab for belt and 
knife, 
And we wonder why we ever went to fight. 
As we try to lace our shoes with our fingers nearly 
froze, 
Then we know what Sherman said was surely 
right. 
We don't feel like soldiers, bold, as we crawl out in 
the cold ; 
Still you hear us swear, but never hear us whine. 
When you hear the Seargeants yell, you may know 
we're getting — well — 
A request for speed when falling into line. 

As we think of home, sweet home, and we swear 
we'll never roam. 
From the safe and cozy place we left behind ; 

69 



REVEILLE 

Then of tub baths, hot, we dream and of houses 
warmed by steam, 
And the girl who, when we left — well, never 
mind. 
When this war for peace is o'er, we'll go back to her 
once more, 
And we'll hope our sons will never have to go, 
But should then, the bugles call, we'll be ready, one 
and all. 
To protect our Flag and Country from the foe. 



Still, we know that we shall long for that bugles' 
morning song, 
When we've settled down to play that peaceful 
game ; 
And, somehow, life will be, different far, for you 
and me. 
Just because the bugles called us and we came. 
And I hope that I shall hear, when the end is drawing 
near. 
And old Gabriel blows his trumpet in the dawn- 
ing, 
just that same old bugle call, that we love far more 
than all. 
Though we hate to hear it sounding in the morn- 
ing. 

70 



REVEILLE 

"I can't get 'em up — I can't get 'em up." 
Can't you hear that bugle call? 

"I can't get 'em up — I can't get 'em up, 
I can't get 'em up at all." 



71 



SKETCHES 



Pup Tents 

Sing a song of pup-tents 
Pitched amid the trees — 
If your head is covered, 
Then your feet will 

freeze. 
Roll and touch the tent 

pole — 
Set her up again. 
Wonder what will hap- 
pen, 
If it starts to rain. 

Two of you stuck in 

'em — 
Room for only one ; 
Have to take turns 

breathing. 
That's the way it's done. 
Boulder jabs you in the 

ribs — 
Lie and cuss your fate, 
Much too tired to dig it 

out — 
Ain't the Army 

GREAT? 



Monkey Drill 

I love constant drilling. 

I love hikes each day. 

I love rising early 

To the tune the bugles 
play, 

But I want to tell you 

What I love the most. 

Give me broncho-bust- 
ing 

And I'll give up the 
ghost. 

Lawdy, how I love it ! 

Lawdy, hear my plea. 

Send an bucking, jump- 
ing, 

Broncho, here to me. 

Send one smooth and 
rounded. 

Oh, hear me, I implore : 

For, Lawdy, I am telling 
you, 

That I am SORE. 



72 



SKETCHES 

Pay Day 

I work for my Uncle, one dollar per day. 
I do my own washing, no board bills to pay. 
For life in the Army, I've this much to say — 
My Gawd, how the money rolls in. 



The Squad 

Comrades mine, will 

you remember. 
In the days which are to 

come. 
How we lived and 

worked together, 
As we heard the warlike 

drum? 
Who can tell what years 

may bring us? 
Come what may — 'tis all 

worth while. 
For the eight of us, 

united. 
Face the future with a 

smile. 



Night 

From the tents the lights 

are gleaming. 
And you seem so far 

away — 
Then the notes of Taps 

come sighing — 
Slowly ends the soldiers' 

day. 
One by one, the tents are 

darkened. 
Silence falls, as drops 

the dew. 
Leaving all the world to 

darkness ; 
Leaving me — to dreams 

of you. 



7Z 



AMELIA 

Is it because your heart is young? 
Is it the blarney on your tongue ? 

Why do I long for you ? 
Why do I dream of your rosebud lips, 
Sweet as the flower where the wild bee sips? 
Why is my heart at your finger tips ? 

Girl o' mine, tell me true. 

Is it the witching wiles of you? 

Is it the warmth in the smiles of you ? 

Why am I loving you ? 
Oh, the silvery moon wrought a wondrous spell, 
And deep in my heart has come to dwell 
A happy dream, that I dare not tell. 

Dear little dream — come true. 



74 



DISCHARGED 

I am sick o' the life in the army. 

I am tired of the bugle's call. 

I am weary o' drillin' an' hikin'. 

Thank the Lord, I am through with it all. 

I have done my bit o' strafing with the Fritzies, 

I have had the Allied cooties strafing me. 
I have seen a lot o' places, met a lot o' foreign races, 

But, at last, the job is over and I'm free. 
So I'll buy a suit o' civvies an' they won't be olive 
drab, 

And I'll chuck my old tin derby from the train : 
Then I'll take my sixty dollars and I'll buy some 
linen collars, 

And be dressed up like a white man once again. 

Then I'm going to sling my feet beneath the table, 
Where there's napkins and a tablecloth of white. 

For I know my mother's pickin' out the largest, fat- 
test chicken 
For her soldier boy that's comin' home tonight. 

75 



DISCHARGED 

I can hear the old town callin' an' I'm goin' back 
"toot sweet," 
To the little girl who's waitin' there for me. 
Then I'll never be regrettin' all the Mam'selles I'm 
forgettin', 
For the army life is "fini" and I'm free. 

Gee, but it's great to forget it ; 

The mud, and the blood, and the strife ; 

I went — and I'll never regret it, 

But I'm through with the army for life. 



76 



RETREAT 

Camp Stanley — April 19. 

Inspection Arms. Port Arms. Dismissed. 

Good-bye — good luck to you. 
We've worked together three long months, 

But now this work is through ; 
And over there, across the sea, 

The waiting bugles call 
To sterner tasks for you and me. 

Our country needs us all. 

We may not meet again, old pal, 

Let's part then, with a smile ; 
This Game of War is not for babes — 

At that — it's all worth while. 
Thank God, I've lived and worked with Men, 

And made a friend or two. 
Inspection Arms. Port Arms. Dismissed. 

Good-bye — good luck to you. 



71 



HOMESICK 

I kin light my pipe an' see it, jest as plain as plain 

kin be, 
In the smoke, that green-gold valley stretchin' out 

before my eye, 
An' the wavy silver ribbon of the river, runnin' free, 
An' that big, old, blue-black mountain, that's humped 

up agin the sky. 

Homesick? Yes, I'm homesick. I'm sick o' the 

crowded town. 
An' the busy throngs of people, stampedin' up an' 

down. 
They pass you, never smilin', each intent on his own 

ends ; 
They are busy makin' money ; got no time f er makin' 

friends. 

I'm sick o' the look on their faces. I'm sick o' the 

rush an' noise, 
An' I'd swap my soul fer a friendly look or the sound 

of a friendly voice. 

78 



HOMESICK 

Good, old Kipling wrote about it. Seems he made 
it mighty plain, 

"Youth was cheap ; wherefore we sold it. 

Gold was good ; we hoped to hold it, 

And today, we know the fullness of our gain." 

Those few words have set me thinkin', an' I'm 

tellin' you it's true. 
There ain't no guess about it. He was writin' what 

he knew, 
An' I'm learnin' now their meanin' — see it clearer 

every day, 
So I'll hit the trail tomorrow, an' I'm goin' back to 

stay. 

Sometimes wonder why I left them, all the folks I 

used to know ; 
Home and friends that really like you, those are 

things a man can't buy ; 
'Course I thought I'd make my fortune then, but 

now I'm glad to go 
Where that big, old, blue-black mountain is humped 

up agin the sky. 



79 



THE PIONEERS 

They are grey, and bent, and weary. 
With the weight of passing years. 
Well we know the debt we owe them, 
To our Sires — the Pioneers. 

For they came through unknown perils, 

Out across the trackless plain, 

Where today we ride in comfort, 
Through the fields of golden grain. 

Climbing mountains, fording rivers, 

Always looking far ahead, 

So that we, who follow after. 

Might be warmed, and clothed, and fed. 

And they broke the first long furrows. 

Sowed their grain, and watched it grow, 

Patient as their toiling oxen. 

Can we pay the debt we owe? 

Then came sickness, death, and sorrow. 

Still they faced it, all alone. 

So that we, who follow after, 

We might reap where they have sown. 

80 



THE PIONEERS 

Who can tell what voice was calling? 

Who can tell what visions fair, 

Lured them onward till they found it, 

Found a land beyond compare ? 

Found and conquered for their children. 

This was what they died to do. 
So that we, who follow after, 
We might watch their dreams come true. 

Year by year, their ranks grow thinner. 

One by one, our nation's pride 

Seek another, fairer country. 

On across the Great Divide. 

Never shall their memory perish. 

We, their sons, will guard their fame. 
God grant, we, who follow after, 
May be worthy of their name. 



8i 



ON CLARK STREET 

Alone, I walked the crowded city streets. 
One tiny atom, mid the countless throng 
Of men and women, hurrying past, 
In search of pleasure, gold, or power, 
And all the myriad things which serve 
To make this life a joy — but none had time 
To cast a cheery glance, or smile. 
Or speak a kindly word. 

Alone, I walked — 
Till suddenly there came a breath 
Of fragrance, like a vagrant wind 
From my own land — and I could smell 
The pine and sagebrush — and could see 
Those white-capped peaks and, at their feet, 
That quiet valley I call "home" ; 
And all the little, sparkling, mountain streams 
That rush o'er rocks and fallen trees, 
And stop to rest in deep brown pools. 
Where speckled trout are leaping for the fly. 

The fragrance passed — 
And once again, I saw the walls of brick 
That hemmed me in, and smelled the smoke 
And odors of the street. 

82 



ON CLARK STREET 

Then, turning round 
To see from whence the perfume came, 
I saw a girl, not one of those who Hve 
Protected from the world, but one whose fate . 
Has been to fight the stem reahties of Hfe 
And lose. She still was young, and yet. 
Her painted lips, and cheeks, and glances, bold, 
Proclaimed her ancient calling. 

She smiled and went her way, 
And never knew the scent she wore had been 
The magic, which conveyed me back. 
O'er many weary miles and wearier years, and gave 
A moment of forgetfulness. 

O, little Painted Lady of the Streets, 
You made me dream again. 



83 



THE MISFITS 

Ave. We are the failures, the misfits. 

\\"e have worked, and dreamed, and tried. 
But we were not made from the stronger clay 
Of those men who build from day to day 
On their past mistakes. We can only pray. 

And drift with the ebbing tide. 

Xo. Not the unfit — the misfits. 

The men who are out of place. 
The artist-souls in the marts of trade. 
All discontent, but still afraid 
To leave the paths their Fathers made. 

And a scornful world to face. 

True. We are but failures, mere dreamers. 

But what if our dreams came true ? 
Could the poet over his ledgers bent, 
Stifling his soul with cent per cent, 
Could he but sing the feelings pent — 

The things that he wished to do? 
The leader, who if the Gods were kind, 
Might sway the world by his power of mind. 
Is wasting his days at the endless grind 

For the sake of the favored few. 

S4 



THE MISFITS 

We know at the end of the journey, 
At the hour of the setting sun. 

That we shall be classed with the coward slave. 

\\*ho buried the talents his Master gave. 

For we are mere weaklings, but were we brave, 
Ah. God ! \\'hat we might have done. 



8; 



THE "HOLY" WAR 

August, 1914 

"And now," says the Kaiser from his balcony to 
the people in the streets, "I commend you to God; 
go to your church and kneel before God and pray 
for our gallant army." 

"We, Nicholas II, by God's grace Emperor and 
Autocrat of all the Russians," the Czar responds. 

"With God's help," echoes Francis Joseph. 

Yea. This is a great and holy war. 

Our Kings have told us so. 
With blare of trumpet and flash of steel. 
And white above, where the man-birds wheel 
On wings of Death, while the wounded reel. 

And call to the God they know. 

Our Kings have said 'tis a holy war. 
And why should we not believe? 
We pray to God for the strength to kill 
Our Fellow-men. 'Tis our Masters' will; 

86 



THE "HOLY" WAR 

We question not, but their wish fulfill. 
For, why should our Kings deceive ? 

The women pray in the village church. 

Our Kings have so decreed. 
Though Kings and Kingdoms may wax and 

wane, 
Can victory soothe the mother's pain, 
Who weeps today, for her man-child slain ? 

What prayers can meet her need? 

When souls of peasant, and prince, and slave 
Shall come once more to the God who gave 
Them life and power, and they shall meet, 
As man to man, at the Judgment seat. 

Where sits our God on high. 
Whom will He blame for this "holy" war, 
The peasant soldier, or King and Czar, 

Who sent them forth to die. 



87 



MUMPS 

What makes a fellow want to swear? What makes 

his heart to break? 
It's not appendicitis nor yet the stomach ache. 

It's the mumps — just the mumps. 

That's the thing that makes a fellow have the 
jumps. 

It's not the blooming pain 

That makes us all complain. 
But 

It's the everlasting swelling of the everlasting 
mumps. 

Spasm Two 

A double chin's not in it. In fact it don't compare. 

You've chin enough for three or four and then a bit 
to spare. 

For the mumps — just the mumps, 
Are enough to put a fellow in the dumps. 
And then the way it goes 
And grows, and grows, and grows. 

Joy ! 

It's the everlasting swelling of the everlasting 
mumps. 

88 



MUMPS 

Final Agony 

And then, the lack of sympathy that's in the human 

race. 
They laugh at all your suffering and call you 

"Funny-Face." 

Oh, the mumps, blooming mumps ; 

When I've got 'em is the time my spirit slumps, 

And I moan and groan and curse. 

But it only makes 'em worse. 
Damn! 

It's the everlasting swelling of the everlasting 
mumps. 



89 



DREAMS 

Do dreams always go by contraries, me dear ? 

Tell me, do they never come true? 
Wid me cigarette gleaming, 
I can spend the hours dreaming, 

While a voice seems to whisper of you. 

"Frank, me boy, your life you're wasting. 
'Tis yoursilf, that should be hastening, 
Back to where the vagrant breezes make the solemn 
pine trees moan. 
Come away from shows and parties, 
Go you back there, where your heart is. 
Where the yellow moon is rising o'er the quiet 
Yellowstone." 

"Shure, you can, you must remember. 
'Twas an evening in September, 
When you stood and watched together, just the girl 
and you alone, 
After all the world was sleeping, 
And the stars alone were peeping. 
As you dreamed there in the moonlight, out along 
the Yellowstone." 

90 



DREAMS 

"Ah, her smile was so entrancing, 
That it set your heart a-dancing, 
Though you were afraid to tell her, yet of course 

she must have known ; 
And perhaps, sometimes she's thinking 
Of the boy, whose heart is sinking. 
Like the moon that's waiting for you, out beside 
the Yellowstone. 

Do dreams always go by contraries, me dear ? 
Tell me, do they never come true? 

Shure, if dreams are deceiving, 

'Tis mesilf that's beHeving, 
That I'll have to quit dreaming of you. 



91 



WEATHER AND WORK 

Our hired man, he sez, sez he, 
"The change the weather makes in me 
Is somethin' wonderful to see." 



"Fer instance now, the winter's cold, 

It makes me feel I'm gittin' old. 

An' somehow, I kain't take a-hold 

An' work. By Gosh ! sez he, 

"Ez sure ez my name is Ezry Perk. 

I never was no hand to shirk, 

But when it's cold, the thought of work, 

It don't appeal to me." 

"An' when the sun is blazin' down, 
A-shinin' on the patch o' groun' 
Whar I am sort o' diggin' roun'. 
You know," sez Ezry Perk, 
"I git to listenin' to the bees 
A-hummin', an' in all the trees 
The birds are singin' songs of ease, 
An' then I jest kain't work." 

9^^ 



WEATHER AND WORK 

"An' now, when fall has come again, 
A-bringin' days o' cold and rain, 
It seems to me, it should be plain 
Sich days ain't made for work. 
An' then, you know, sich weather is 
Most powerful bad fer rheumatiz. 
An' if I worked out-doors, Gee Whiz ! 
'Twould ruin me," sez Perk. 



"An thar is my philosophy. 

It ain't no use to work, by Gee, 

Unless the weather's right," sez he. 



93 



THE WELCOME 

In Montana, where the mountains raise their snow- 
capped peaks on high, 
O, the blue-black of the pines against the snow — 

In Montana, where the prairies run far out to meet 
the sky, 
O, the murmur of the breezes to and fro — 
In the land that God was good to, 
In our own, the last, best West, 
We are waiting, while we're working, 
With a welcome for the rest 
Of the men, who now are coming, 
And the others, still to come. 
Who shall teach their children's children 
To call Montana "home." 

In the land our fathers left us, in the land our sons 

shall love, 

O, the treasures of the mountain and the plain — 

Midst our wealth of mines and forests, fertile 

valleys, rushing streams. 

And the gently waving fields of golden grain, 

94 



THE WELCOME 

We have wealth, unknown, uncounted, 

Shall we cease our labors then, 

With our land still undeveloped? 

What we need today, is Men. 

Men, we want, not cowards nor weaklings 

And we offer you a home 

In our West, the land of promise. 

We are waiting for you. Come ! 



95 



AMBITION 

Gee, how I wish 'at I was growed 

Up big, just Hke my Paw, 

I bet I wouldn't waste my time 

A-tellin' folks the law. 

I'd be a P'liceman, big an' grand, 

An' wear a shiny hat. 

An' if a burglar come around, 

I'd show him where he's at. 

Er else I'd be a cowboy, brave. 

Away out in the West. 

Of all the broncho-busters there, 

I'd be the very best. 

I'd shoot the wolves an' Injuns too. 

An' scalp 'em on the head, 

An' cut a notch on my pistol stock, 

Fer every one 'at's dead. 

I'd like to be a robber man. 
An' help 'em rob a train, 
Er captain of a battleship, 
An' lick them folks from Spain. 

96 



AMBITION 

Er I might be a pirate, bold, 
An' make folks walk the plank, 
An* laff aloud with awful glee, 
Wen they hit, ker-plunk, an' sank. 

My Paw is just the smartest man, 

But I can't understand, 

Why he should be a lawyer, w'en 

He might play in the band ; 

But you just wait till I get big, 

I'll show 'em all a few, 

Fer w'en a boy is clear growed up. 

There's lot of things to do. 



97 



PAL O' MINE 

As I sit, and smoke, and ponder, 
Smiling gently through the haze 
From my pipe, my thoughts will wonder 
Back to you — and high-school days. 

Pal o' mine, do you remember. 
Sometimes, when the lights are low, 
All the things we planned and talked of 
In the days of long ago ? 
All those rosy colored visions 
That we dreamed, just me and you, 
Things that time would surely bring us — 
Wonder why they can't come true. 

Fame and riches, joy and gladness. 
All the Future held in store. 
They were ours. No thought of sadness 
Touched our dreams in days of yore. 
Days ere Life had lost its glamour, 
Ere we dreamed of duty's chain. 
Days of youth, of love, of dreaming, 
Would that I could dream again. 

98 



PAL O' MINE 

Let me turn the pages backward, 
Back to where all dreams were true- 
To C. H. S., our Alma Mater, 
Back to high-school days — and you. 



99 



THE COWBOY'S LAMENT 

Thar ain't no West, no more, at all. 

Thar ain't no place to go. 
My bronk and I are old and tired 

From wanderin' to an' fro, 
A-lookin' for some place to live 

Whar folks ain't crowded so. 
They tell me, we are out of date, 

An' I suppose they know. 

Fer, somehow, Progress passed us by. 

Fm glad she did it yet 
We're relics of those happy days 

It seems I can't forget. 
When coyotes howled upon the hills ; 

My eyes are kind o' wet. 
The world has moved an' Fve stood still, 

I guess I shouldn't fret. 

When I compare those days with these, 

A lump comes in my throat ; 
To think o' dressin' like a dude ! 

It kind o' gets my goat, 
But I've packed away my spurs an' chaps 

An' bought a long-tail coat. 
Montana's gettin' civilized. 

Since wimmin got the vote. 

lOO 



THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

Is it not strange? 

That two shall come from lands the whole wide 

world apart. 
And meeting face to face, shall see an image 

clear, 
Their image, each reflected in the other's heart, 
And, seeing this, the two, without a thought 

of fear, 
Shall walk a little way together. Then shall 

part 

To meet no more. 

And going each their different ways, midst 

faces, new, 
And different scenes, each striving to forget 

their love 
Shall roam alone. Unknowing, yet their whole 

lives through 
Shall seek each other. Thus the Gods above 

shall prove 
Their power. And we, who at the Fates 
defiance threw, 

Shall learn too late 

Our error, and shall struggle back. 

But meet no more. 

And this is Fate. 

lOI 



GRACE 

Shure, she came from North Dakota, this wild rose 

av the West, 
From the land where pretty girls were first invented, 
An' she's set me heart a-thumpin' an' she's spoilin' 

av me rest. 
'Tis only when I drame av her thot I can slape 

continted. 
The little birds, they sing av her. The breezes 

whisper "Grace." 
I wonder if she hears thim too, an' if she thinks 

av me. 
I wonder if she knows the whiles, her dainty rose- 
bud face 
Is haunting all me waking hours. Me thoughts, 

they wander free. 
An' flyin' off on vagrant wing, they whisper in her 

ear, 
Thot their master, an' the slave av her, he waits to 

learn his fate. 
I wonder, will their answer be the words I long to 

hear 
From me wild rose, me dream rose, me rose av the 

Wild Rose state. 

102 



GOIN' AWAY 

I'm sick o' the sight o' the prairies 

A-stretchin' out, mile on mile, 
I'm sick o' the snow an' the blizzards. 
I'm goin' away awhile. 

I plugged along in the harness fer nigh onto thirty 

year. 
I had my share o' troubles, an' I had my share o' 

cheer; 
Jest kep' on workin' an' workin', the way that a man 

will do. 
I worked for the kids and missus, but now my work 

is through. 

The kids is grown up an' married, an' got kidlets 

o' their own; 
The missus, she's lyin yonder, underneath that big, 

white stone 
Up there along the hillside. I wonder if she's happy 

yet. 
Or does she kind o' miss us, an' the worry, work, 

an' fret 

103 



GOIN' AWAY 

O' the years we spent together. Wonder if she 

wouldn't come 
Back an' do the whole thing over. But her work 

an* mine is done. 



It's hard, this sittin', an' thinkin', an' waitin' here 

all alone 
For the call to come an' join her. Seems that call 

won't never come, 
Fer there's no one here that needs me an' I guess 

I've earned a rest. 
An' I know she's waitin' for me in the Islands o' 

the Blest. 

I'm sick o' the sight o' the prairies, 
O' the springtime's slush an' mud, 

An' the white-hot glare o' the summers ; 
I'm goin' away — fer good. 



104 



AN AWFUL POEM 

You know Mrs. Brown told Mrs. Jones, and Mrs. 

Jones told me 
That Mrs. Brown's hired girl — yes, you know I was 

there to tea, 
And I said I'd never tell a soul, but she won't mind, 

I guess, 
And you know, Miss Green, of course it's none 

of my business. 

But ain't it awful? 

And then, that Mr. What's-his-name, that married 

Emma Bird, 
Course I don't know how true it is, but that's just 

what I heard. 
And folks are talking scandalous, but his wife don't 

seem to care, 
I never told a soul before. It's none of my affair, 
But ain't it awful? 

Yes, I heard she dyed her hair and she paints some 
too, I guess. 

Don't Mrs. Smithson look a fright in that tight- 
fitting dress? 

105 



AN AWFUL POEM 

You'd think that she was old enough — and that 

awful looking hat — 
What's that, Miss Green? Well, did you ever? 

What do you think of that? 
Now, ain't it awful? 

They say he drinks an awful lot, and we thought he 

was so nice. 
But you can't tell about these men — and I saw him 

shaking dice. 
And that's just as bad as gambling. What's that, 

you don't have to go ? 
You're going to call on Mrs. Who? Yes, someone 

told me so, 

And ain't it awful? 



io6 



COMING HOME 

There's red bandannas wavin' an' a-flutterin' in the 

breeze, 
An' the shoutin' of the people comes a-ringin' 

through the trees, 
Like a wind from off the prairies, which is comin' 

just to say 
An' repeat the stirrin' message, "Teddy comes to 

town, today." 

We've been watchin' fer his comin' out here in the 
Golden West, 

Fer we know that he is one of us, a man just like the 
rest 

Of the folks who faced the hardships of the fron- 
tiers, up an' down. 

An' that's why we're all excited when our Teddy 
comes to town. 

He's runnin' now fer president— don't seem it can 

be true. 
But he's just the same ol' Teddy, older some, like 

me and you — 
He's got that same ol' fightin' jaw, an' happy grin— 

an' say ! 
I'm goin' to vote fer Teddy, an' he's comin' home 

today. 

107 



THE GOD OF CONVENTIONALITY 

When first the thought of worship drove our sires 
to seek a God, 

They, finding nothing fitting, buih an idol out of mud, 

And, as some truth was shrined therein, they said 
their work was good 

And taught their sons to worship — caUing aloud on 
Its name ; 

E'en made them Priests of Its temple ; forgetting 
whence It came. 

Forgetting they had made It ; they bowed and wor- 
shipped the same. 

When younger Priests approached and saw beneath 

the gold, the clay, 
They kept the matter quiet — for what would their 

Elders say? 

Thus It was handed downward, and so we were 

taught in youth 
To bow to Gods of Secret Shame for the sake of the 

Lesser Truth, 

io8 



THE GOD OF CONVENTIONALITY 

And the monstrous Thing that our fathers built is 

holy still. In sooth 
It seems the Devil must sometimes smile, watching 

our sacrifice. 
We crucify for that man-made God, our honor, our 

very lives. 
For the sake of our fathers' teaching — and fear of 

our neighbors' eyes. 

We know the God is false, and yet, we bow our 

heads and pray, 
For are we not His Prophets — and what would the 

others say ? 



109 



POLITICS 

Elijah Brown sez politics 
Is one thing that won't never mix 
With business, but he sez, sez he, 
"I hear my country's call fer me, 
An' I don't want it ever sed, 
In days to come when I am dead. 
That 'Lijah Brown refused to do 
His duty. From my p'int o' view. 
It seems to me 
We need," sez he, 

"Sum men in Congress who are strong 
An' steadfast foes o' graft an' wrong ; 
Who'll fight the Trusts, both night and day, 
An' know what's wrong with Schedule K. 
My friends are beggin' me to run. 
An' now, this yere campaign's begun 
My hat is in the ring," sez he. 
"I'll save the country — vote for me." 

He passed seegars around an' we, 
Each one agreed with 'Lijah B. 



no 



MY PIPE AND I 

From the land of the German Kaiser 

Comes this friend I hold tonight, 
Carved out by some skillful workman 

From the clay, so pure and white. 
It is only an old, old meerschaum. 

It is old and brown, but sweet. 
My one true friend, who will stick to the end, 

Though sorrow and pain we meet. 

Far out on the Western prairies 

I have taken this friend of mine. 
I've smoked it amid the mountains, 

And in forests of spruce and pine. 
It tells me tales of the joys that were 

And the trials that are to be. 
Sadness grips my heart as the smoke-clouds part 

And reveal the past to me. 

Faces of girls I used to love, 

And pals that I used to know ; 
Things I thought I had long forgot 

And that happened long ago. 
Bitter, yet sweet, are the thoughts, tonight. 

That come rushing back to me 
Of "auld lang syne," for all that is mine, 

Is my pipe — and Memory. 

Ill 



THE WHISPERIN' LADY 

The Whisperin' Lady, she whispered to me, 

I can't tell you just what she said. 
But, somehow, the wur'rld it seems brighter to be 
And, shure, it seems gladder and fuller av glee. 

Me hear'rt is no longer like lead. 
'Tis happy as iver a captive can be, 
Since the Whisperin' Lady whispered to me. 

The Whisperin' Lady is lovely to see. 

Me hear'rt jumps like mad whin she's nigh. 
No colleen in Ireland is sweeter than she ; 
It wasn't the wur'rds that she whispered to me. 

I can't tell you just why I sigh. 
Me hear'rt is a captive, nor longs to be free. 
Since the Whisperin' Lady whispered to me. 



112 



ECONOMY 

Hiram Griggs, he sez, sez he, 

"This town ain't what it orter be. 

Grocery business gettin' slack. 

Dunno why, but that's a fac', 

But," sez he, 

"Economy 

Is my motto." 

Then he went 

Back into the store an' sent 

An order off to Mr. Rears 

An' Sawbuck fer a pair o' shears. 

Five pair o' socks, a Sunday hat, 

A base-ball suit an' mit an' bat 

Fer little Jim, six yards o' silk, 

A patent strainer fer the milk, 

A gingham dress fer Mrs. Hi, 

An' then sez he, 'T don't see why 

The grocery business ain't no good, 

Though I've been doin' all I could. 

As fur as I kin see, it must 

Be all becuz the Sugar Trust, 

Er some o' them big moneyed men 

Is robbin' us poor folks again. 

But, you see, 

Economy, 

It is my motto still," sez he. 

"3 



TO THE GODDESS NICOTINE 

Smoking my pipe in the evening and just sort of 

dreaming dreams, 
In the long Dakota twilight, or by winter firelight's 

gleams. 
Watching the smoke curl upward — with my heart 

from sorrow free. 
As I burn upon thy altar my offering to thee. 

Oh, thou Goddess, friend to mankind, asking naught 
and giving all ; 

Well pleased if we but worship and enjoy thy pleas- 
ing thrall, 

Giving solace to our sorrows, and peace when hearts 
are sad. 

(Yet, they wonder that we worship and scoffers call 
us mad.) 

Still we show them naught but pity. Poor fools, they 
can never know 

Half the wonder and the beauty of the clouds 
of smoke we blow. 

Though we turn from thee in anger or to follow gods 

more new. 
They are merely fleeting fancies, for we all return 

to you. 

114 



TO THE GODDESS NICOTINE 

Soon or late, we must come back to our first Divinity, 
Mistress of Sorrow, Joy, and Hope, of Love and 

Hate is she, 
And in the smoke of a million pipes, our loyalty is 

seen. 
'Tis the incense from our altars to our Goddess, 

Nicotine. 

Smoking my pipe in the evening and just sort of 

dreaming dreams. 
In the long Dakota twilight or by winter firelight's 

gleams, 
Watching the smoke curl upward — with my heart 

from sorrow free. 
Still I burn upon thy altar my offering to thee. 



115 



THE SONG OF THE "BO" 

I'm not so very pretty and I guess I need a shave, 
And the style of clothes I'm wearing won't make 

the ladies rave. 
I'm a menace to the country, so you say. Perhaps 
you know. 
But here's my little song. 
It ain't so very long, 
For I ain't no literary gent ; I'm just a common "bo." 

Did you ever have a feeling — just want to get away? 
A Voice just sort of calling and commanding 
you to go 

Somewhere else, away from here — just moving day 
by day? 
If you've ever heard that Voice you'll under- 
stand and know 

The reason why I'm moving on. I haven't got a cent, 

But I heard that Voice a-calling, and I dropped my 
work and went. 

I've held a lot of different jobs in this old world 
so wide, 
And some of them looked good to me. I thought 
I'd stick awhile, 

ii6 



THE SONG OF THE "BO" 

I thought I'd work and save my coin and go to 
church beside, 
And maybe go and see the folks when I'd made 
my little pile. 
But — I'd just get nicely settled down to live like 

other men, 
When that Voice would come a-calling — and I'd nit 
the trail again. 



Riding in a box car and begging hand-outs at the 

door. 
And still that Voice is whispering to me, its 

message low, 
"Go on, still on, the world is wide and you should see 

some more. 
"Life's none too long to see it all, so jump the 

train and go 
"Somewhere else, no matter where, from the Lakes 

to Mexico." 
There's naught on earth can hold me, when that 

whisper bids me go. 



So I've lost all hopes of stopping. I must be hiking 
soon. 
And I suppose I'll keep a-moving on until the 
end, 

117 



THE SONG OF THE "BO" 

For the rattle of a freight train is far the sweetest 

tune 
To my ears, of any music. She's coming round 

the bend, 
And I must be moving on again. My friends, I'll 

say "Good bye." 
It's my fate. The Voice has spoken. I must go 

until I die. 

I ain't no literary gent. I'm just a common "bo," 
And my style ain't really polished, but now perhaps 

you'll know 

And understand the reason, why it is I can't remain 

All my life on one same shift, 

Why I jump my job and drift. 

For I like my work and you — but I've heard that 

Voice again. 



ii8 



NORTH DAKOTA 

From many towns, from many states, with faith 

and hope came we, 
And some of us from distant lands that He across 

the sea. 
With many hopes, with many aims, with many ends 

in view. 
From the frozen North and torrid South, to the land 
where dreams come true. 
And though we love the homeland, 

We love thee still the best, 
Our generous foster mother. 
Our Lady of the West. 

We love thy hills, we love thy plains w^here glows the 

golden grain : 
We love thee in thy many moods, in sunshine and 

in rain. 
Thy winds bring health; thy fields bring wealth; 

and happiness is free. 
For no man ever worked in vain for his reward from 
thee. 
Though we must toil to earn thy gifts. 

Thy sons ne'er ask for rest. 
When thy spirit bids them labor. 
Our lady of the West. 

119 



NORTH DAKOTA 

So, here's a toast from thy loyal sons to the land 

we love the best ; 
A toast (we must drink it in water) to Our Lady 

of the West. 



I2« 



THE SLAVES OF THE COMMONPLACE 

Ye have sung the praise of the heroes, 

Their trials and victories 
For the honor of the homeland, 

In the lands across the seas. 
Oft their valor has been proven 

And their worth, that all may know, 
But — here's the tale of the other man, 

The man who couldn't go. 

Oh, the wanderlust is in us and we want to go away, 
But home and duty call us — and we cannot choose 
but stay. 

When the trumpets call to battle. 

And the streets ring out with cheers, 
When the mothers and the sweethearts 

Try to smile and hide their tears ; 
It is then that we are saddest. 

It is then we feel the weight 
Of the burden that is on us, 

Who can only v. ork and wait. 

121 



THE SLAVES OF THE COMMONPLACE 

It were sweet to die in battle while the war-cry 

loudly rings, 
But some of us must stay at home — slaves of the 

Common Things. 

It is not that we are cowards, 

Though some may call us so. 
The voice of Duty bids us stay. 

(God knows, we want to go.) 
For some are free to roam the world 

And fight for their country's fame, 
But some must work to feed the rest. 

And care for the sick and lame. 

In the endless round of the Commonplace, we live 

and work and die. 
Though our lives are spent in petty things — our souls 

for freedom crv. 



IZZ 



THE JESTERS 

Arrayed in motley, sat the jesting Fates, 
Playing at chess with laughter, joke, and song. 
Our earth for chess-board, nations for the squares 
On which they moved, unheeding, right or wrong. 
A game — no more — in which it mattered not 
Who won or lost. Nor did they keep a score 
Of games completed. When a pawn or king 
Had done its little part to win, the thing 
Was cast aside as worthless, used no more. 



Yet we, the pawns their careless fingers move. 
We wonder why we work, and fight, and love. 



123 



AFTERWORD 

All through this book, if you have had the patience 
to read it, you have found poems about girls, many 
girls, but never a word about my one real sweetheart. 

I have tried to write verses about her, but failed. 
The English language is pitifully inadequate and 
my little jingles are almost a desecration when ap- 
plied to her. 

If there is any merit in this book, if there is any 
merit in anything I have ever done, the credit belongs 
to her — my Mother. 



"5 



'iliiiiiii 

° 015928 462 1 # 



